No Roof, John!
by archergwen
Summary: A misunderstanding leads to further adventures for the consulting detective. Post-Reichenbach
1. Chapter 1

John Watson was lounging on the couch, checking his email, when Sherlock Holmes came home (from whatever expedition he'd been on that afternoon) with a rare smile on his face. Sherlock threw his black trench coat into the kitchen and exclaimed, "John! You know how you're always trying to get me to go to a bar with you? To loosen up? Though I don't see why I'd ever need it. To loosen up implies that I'm too tightly wound, but I'm not all worked up, how am I supposed to function? So I still don't see why—"  
"Sherlock!" John interrupted, "Get to the point."  
"Ah. Well, I was riding home in the cab today, after having tracked down and put that scoundrel, Millers, in jail, I saw a bar that looks like it could be fun. IT HAS NO ROOF, JOHN! Can you imagine that? No roof! Well, I figured I would finally give your suggestion a go, and you and I are going to the bar! So get your coat!" Sherlock threw John's coat at him, and the black jacket landed on his head, blacking out the room for an instant.  
When he pulled the coat off his head, Sherlock had already pulled his back on and was yanking John to his feet. "Ok, ok, Sherlock! Give me a second."  
"No, John. Now!" And Sherlock pulled his flat mate out the door.  
After a short cab ride through the London streets, Sherlock Holmes stood in front of a building, his arms spread-eagled in excitement. The structure behind him had a large, neon pink sign with the glowing words: 'Topless Bar' broadcast into the night as a redhead ducked into the building behind them. John tried his hardest not to laugh and Sherlock said, "See? I told you it looked fun!"  
John said through his giggles, "No, Sherlock. I don't think you—" He paused as he considered whether or not to tell his friend about his mistake. He decided against it. "You know, you're right. But, I'm feeling a little wiped out. So, why don't you go on ahead, and I'll catch up with you back at the flat. You can tell me what it was like."  
"But John, the sign says drinks on the first floor, and entertainment on the second. I bet they have a jazz band. That'd be classy. Can you imagine listening to a jazz band under the stars in a ROOFLESS BAR?!"  
John tried again not to laugh, but rather walked up to his friend and put a stash of money in his palm. "Tell you what: the first drink is on me. And trust me; you're going to need it." He smiled at his joke.  
Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "Do you know something I don't?"  
John just shrugged. "Doesn't that drive you nuts? Maybe you should figure it out." Then John climbed back into the cab and told the cabbie to take him home.  
On his way back, John picked up his phone and texted:

_Mycroft,  
Did you not teach Sherlock ANYTHING growing up?  
-JW,_

A few minutes later, he got a response:

Not really. Why? What's he done now?  
-MH

Well, he's at a topless bar because he thought it was a bar without a roof.  
-JW

….Please tell me how that turns out. That's funny.  
-MH

I will. And it is.  
-JH

*

Sherlock didn't quite realize his mistake at first. He was unsettled when he walked in but he shook it off when he walked to the bar. He ordered a rum and coke with John's money, heading straight for the stairs.  
Still, as he climbed the stairs, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.  
He thought he realized the problem when he saw the roof. Sherlock was insanely disappointed.  
Then he saw the women.  
Sherlock abruptly about-faced. Now he understood the shirtless men downstairs.  
The room began to swim and he briefly wondered if something had been slipped into his drink, before he remembered that he hadn't had even a sip.  
Sherlock took one step back towards the stairs before slender arms wrapped around him.  
"This is a topless bar, Sherlock. Let's get that shirt off you." He turned to face the somewhat familiar voice, finding a redhead in "proper" clubbing clothes. "Thanks for making it so much easier, dear," she purred.  
His coat and scarf fell to the floor as he said not a word, staring at her face.  
She slowly pulled his shirt un-tucked and started to unbutton it, beginning at the bottom. "Why, Sherlock, don't you remember me?"  
He did, in fact, remember her. But the room around them did not lend itself to happy reunions. He had finally realized the strangeness. There was a large, subtle shift away from their side of the room, but it left behind a figure that appeared vaguely famous.  
Before Sherlock could spring into action, the woman reached up and unbuttoned the very last one resting right as his neck with her teeth, letting out an all-too familiar sigh.  
He looked down at her as she pulled the shirt off, wearing a look far too proud of herself. "You do remember Edith Williams, your old neighbor."  
Sherlock ignored her lie and just as he opened his mouth to explain the danger they were in, there came a click.  
Both turned sharply towards the sound the same second Sherlock wrapped his arms around the woman and pulled her to the ground.  
Then the wall exploded.


	2. Chapter 2

_Quick personal assessment.  
Head? Good. No pain. Ringing in ears. Cut lip. Some stinging on left cheek, could be bleeding, definite shrapnel hit.  
Neck? Good.  
Upper body? Lacerations due to exposed skin. No wounds requiring medical assistance. (Arms likely wounded from ground contact)  
Torso? Same  
Back? Same  
Legs? Alright. New tear in left leg. Shoes still on.  
Now to environment.  
Irene.  
Head: Eyes open and blinking, focused. No concussion. Little blood. Could be mine. No signs of-_  
"Sherlock," she murmured, laughing. "If you wanted to go horizontal you just needed to ask."  
"Strange, I didn't miss those comments when you were dead."  
She glared at him.  
_No brain damage. Clearly.  
Neck? Slight lacerations  
Upper body? Same. Her clothing shielded her  
Torso? Lacerations  
Back? Unclear. Arms likely absorbed contact  
Legs? Unclear._  
"Come along, Edith," he said pointedly. "Lestrade will be here in all due time."  
"Ooo, I get to solve a crime with Sherlock Holmes. A girl could get really excited about that." She shifted slightly, making no attempt to hide her pleasure.  
A raised eyebrow was all she received in return before the rolled off her and rose to his feet.  
_Western wall blown up. Amateur job. Intended to kill but badly planned. Political._  
He scanned the room.  
_Casualties but no fatalities. Stairs intact._  
Sherlock spun and quickly descended down the stairs.  
Halfway down he turned to the scantily clad redhead who followed him. "You will do exactly as I say, if I even ask for your help."  
"Now Sherlock, of two things I'm certain: That first clause is no fun, and you need my help." She brushed casually past him. "Let's not forget who solved the boomerang case."  
"You drugged me!"  
"Details," she replied, dismissing his comment with a wave of her hand.

* * *

DI Lestrade was greeted with a shock when he arrived at the bomb site.  
He was not fazed by the mess of reporters around the scene. A minor political official is found in a topless bar that explodes? Lestrade knew the tabloids would be teeming with the sordid details in the morning.  
He wasn't unsettled by the crowd of spectators, barely and hastily covered girls, or the tipsy men trying to sneak away before their picture was caught and jealous wives learned their secrets.  
No, DI Gregory Lestrade was unnerved by a shirtless Sherlock Holmes wandering around, trying to solve the case with a stunning redhead. And he seemed to _like_ her.  
What the bloody hell was going on?  
"Holmes!"  
The curly and slightly bloodied head turned towards the sound. "Busy doing your job, Lestrade!"  
The redhead gently shoved Sherlock, who glared in return and silently returned to the case.  
Chuckling at the sight of the detective as whipped as he'd ever be, Lestrade ducked under the police tape and walked towards Sherlock.  
"So, consulting detective, who's your new assistant? Watson ill?"  
"This is Edith Doe." The woman, barely modest, flashed a demure smile. "And I don't know where the doctor is."  
"Right. So what have we got?"  
"Attempted and poorly planned political assassination. No fatalities on initial explosion. Casualties of course, one of which I am."  
"And I," Edith said with a nudge in Sherlock's back.  
He winced and shifted away from her, though she didn't appear sorry. "And Edith, too."  
Lestrade's mouth twitched. "Would you like a coat, either of you?"  
"No. Mine's somewhere on the second floor."  
"Thank you, but also no," replied Edith politely. "I'll borrow Sherlock's."  
Lestrade twitched a smile again as Sherlock seemed to course with annoyance. "You should get that facial tick checked out, Inspector" he said brusquely as he about-faced.  
"My dear, dear woman, however did you get in this privileged position?" asked the DI.  
"Very carefully," she murmured and glided after Sherlock.  
Donovan chose that moment to approach her boss. "Inspector, who the hell is she?"  
"A lovely Edith Doe. I don't know if we'll ever see her after this, but I certainly hope she stays."

* * *

Sherlock, of course, found clues to the bomber and to his anger Lestrade wouldn't let him help chase the criminal.  
"You're bloody and bruised. So is Edith. Go home for God's sake and rest."  
"I can keep going. So can Edith." She let out a pained sigh in response. "Fine. We'll go home."  
He immediately walked to the curb and flagged a hesitant taxi. "If you need me, you know where to find me."


	3. Chapter 3

An hour and a half later from John's view, Sherlock Holmes stomped into the apartment. His shirt was gone; there was a large rip in the left leg of his trousers, and a dark stain down the other leg. He stomped through the flat and slammed his bedroom door. "How'd it go?" John called out from his spot on the couch.  
"I hate you!" Sherlock called through the door.  
John began to laugh uncontrollably. "I couldn't resist! It was too easy. And what happened to your shirt? And your trousers..."  
Sherlock's curly brunette head popped back out into the main flat. "I don't wish to talk about it." Then he shut the door again, hiding from his flat mate until morning.  
John picked up his cell phone and began composing a text for Mycroft.

* * *

Sherlock was faced with déjà vu. A very vulnerable Irene Adler lay asleep in his bed.  
The window was undamaged but he knew that was how she slipped in. There was no way John was that blind.  
He paced one lap of the room before she spoke.  
"Sherlock?"  
He froze, uncertain. What was it with this woman? "Yes. Did I wake you?"  
"No. I couldn't sleep."  
"Oh. Well I'll go then."  
"No, no, please? I-" She seemed genuinely off. "-I've barely slept since you rescued me. And I've been in my flat for too long. Sleep with me?"  
Sherlock had spent enough time with his brother and made enough wrong clicks on John's laptop to vaguely have warning bells go off in his head.  
Irene could hear them too. "No, not like that. I just need someone's presence." She shifted towards one side of the mattress, revealing a very simple and modest nightgown with a pattern of rose petals.  
"Alright."  
She buried her face in the pillow. "You can change trousers. I won't peek. I promise."  
Sherlock quietly moved to his dresser and changed for bed. He'd probably have to throw away the tattered clothes. He sighed. Well, time to face the torture as he felt unease in his back.  
Irene still had her face buried in the pillow when he turned around.  
He softly sat on the edge of the bed and Irene moved away leaving him room.  
"Thank you," he murmured, stretching out his gangly body along the mattress, placing his hands behind his head.  
She murmured something intelligible in response and scooted a little farther away.  
Sherlock quickly calculated the time it would take for Irene to be in a deep enough sleep for him to escape.  
Forty should suffice.  
But after roughly twenty minutes, Irene rolled over; resting her head on his shoulder and tucking her arm around his chest.  
He didn't dare leave now. She was asleep and if he woke her in the wrong place of her sleep cycle she would be even worse. Blasted sleep inertia. After a few seconds of shock, he moved his arm to her back.  
It seemed suddenly natural yet terrifying. Resting his other hand on hers, he fell asleep that way.


	4. Chapter 4

Irene woke alone.  
She wasn't surprised. Sherlock would want to protect her from John. She yawned, stretching her limbs.  
Yawning like a satisfied cat, she rolled over to find Sherlock had left her a note.  
_You snuggled.  
-SH_  
Irene chuckled and rose to find her clothes from her hiding place. She would have to find some more. Hopefully, her nights away from the flat had caused those after her to search somewhere else. She slipped into her clothes, grabbed one of Sherlock's coats for extra coverage, and slid out the window.  
She had made it across the city, and one block from her flat, when the first bullet whizzed past her ear.  
Irene dove into a nearby alley, scaling the fire escape and vaulting into an open window.  
"Excuse me," she called to the shocked cereal eater as she darted out his door and up the internal stairs of the building. Finding a supply closet, she ducked inside.  
_If there was ever a time to believe in a god, it's now._  
She pulled out her phone and texted Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

A sigh interrupted Sherlock's train of thought.  
He was standing over a dead body, stabbed in the heart with a gaudily blue colored kitchen knife. The victim had been at the bar when it exploded. Related? Of course. But now he had been distracted. He shook it off and re-focused.  
The sigh came again.  
He spun towards the group of cops, with whom Lestrade had shared the story of Irene's text alert. "Who?"  
Anderson smirked. "You. Re-assigned the sound to Ms. Doe?"  
Sherlock made a face and reached for his pocket. He flipped through his texts quickly.  
"Lestrade, I need to go."  
"What?"  
But Sherlock was already down the stairs.

* * *

_You snore, Mr. Holmes._

* * *

_Dinner? 99 Neasden Lane_


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was calmly reading the paper when John walked in.  
"I thought you were off doing whatever it is you needed to do."  
"I finished."  
"I see."  
It wasn't that simple. Irene had managed to slip out of her first refuge and keep running before nearly getting caught on Neasden.  
"What were you doing?"  
Staging a near-murder as a botched break-in. "Edith's cat was up a tree."  
"Excuse me? You left a murder scene because a woman's cat was up a tree?"  
Sherlock held up a hand. "It scratched me." The attackers did at least.  
"A cat. Up a tree. For that you leave a murder?" John sighed. "You could just tell me the truth."  
"You wouldn't like it."  
"I never do, but that's not important. It's more important that you actually tell me what's going on. Then I can help you."  
Sherlock blinked. "I had a lead."  
"And?"  
"It didn't pan out."  
"The scratches?"  
"I despise thick rose bushes."  
John nodded. "Want any help?"  
"Not really. The answer is quite simple. The murderer is the same person who blew up the bar. I gave Lestrade plenty of info on him. If Edith hadn't texted me about the possible lead, I would know who the killer is."  
Watson sighed. "Fine. I'll just go to my room then."  
"See you later."  
Slightly confused, but no more than usual, John retreated to his room.  
Sherlock quickly rose and slipped into his room. "Irene?"  
"Hey," she whispered.  
"You're lucky I've spent time watching John."  
"I am."

* * *

_"Sherlock," came a whisper.  
"Where are you?"  
"Here." Her hand waved him over to the shadows. He moved quickly over to where she was hiding. "Gently-" He bumped her shoulder. "GENTLY."  
"Your shoulder."  
She hissed in pain. "I had no resources in my first hideout. I had to move. I got hit crossing Willesden."  
"And you made it here?"  
"I had to." Irene shifted and lifted a pistol with her good arm. "I can't go to the police. But I was prepared in case this happened."_

* * *

"Sherlock?"  
He quickly threw the covers over Irene's head. "Yes, John?" The doorknob rattled. "Please don't."  
"Alright. I'm going to the market for more milk. Might stop in a bookstore before that though. It's almost Mary's birthday."  
"Which one's Mary?"  
John sighed. "The tutor."  
"Got it. Bye."  
The sound of footsteps down the stairs sent Sherlock into action. He yanked the covers off Irene, revealing the blood seeping through the bandages.  
"Why did he have to come home before-" she gasped in pain as he lifted her up.  
"We'll be starting where we left off," Sherlock replied.  
He carried her out of his room to the kitchen. She winced as he shifted his grip to one arm, the better to sweep the table clear with the other hand. He laid her gently on the table. Grabbing a towel he placed it beneath her wounded shoulder. "The bright side is, I got the bullet out."  
"Yes, but now the hole is bigger."  
"You didn't want John to find out you were alive that way."  
"Lying on his kitchen table, bleeding? I'll pass on that reunion, kinky though it may be."  
Sherlock removed a few plastic bags containing small scissors, needles, and thread. "Do me a favor?"  
"What?"  
"Pass out."

* * *

John came home to the smell of bacon.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's four in the afternoon. Why are you making bacon?"  
He tried to enter the apartment with the shopping bags, one of books another of the needed milk. But Sherlock blocked his entry with a cackling and dented pan of bacon.  
"I thought it would be an appropriate gesture since I was slightly rude before you left."  
"So you thought you would accost me with half-cooked bacon?"  
"Yes."  
John shook his head. "I appreciate the attempt, but I would like to put the milk in the fridge."  
"There's no room."  
"What?"  
"I have another head in there. Experiment. Don't mess it up. You had better put the milk in Mrs. Hudson's fridge."  
"What?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "If you hurry, the bacon will be just right when you get back up the stairs."  
"No." John shouldered his way past Sherlock, thankful for his thick coat. "I am not going downstairs. I am putting this milk in the fridge whether or not you have an experiment because our apartment never has-"  
Both the bags dropped from his hands and the milk burst everywhere.  
"-milk."  
"John," began Sherlock as he put the bacon back on the stove. "I assume you remember Irene."  
"Yes. Though if I thought she would come back from the dead I would never have imagined it would have been on our kitchen table." John moaned. "You just shoved it all on the floor? And now there's milk on Mary's gift. Great." He looked at Sherlock. "You're cleaning this up."  
"Why am I?"  
"Because you made the mess and made me spill the milk."  
"I made you spill the milk? I just saved her life!"  
"And dented the frying pan."  
Sherlock stared at the betraying cooking utensil. "She wouldn't fall asleep."


	6. Chapter 6

_Bullets and fists flying as she tried to cover him. He had come for her and in return she did her best to keep the bullets aimed at her body, away from her dark angel.  
A chess-piece that refused to play, though he played well.  
Ripped in half by a 9mm-  
In her nightmares his fall never ended._  
Though she usually didn't wake up on a kitchen table.  
"Good, you're awake."  
Her head throbbed with the memory of why she fell asleep in the first place. "Why," She began as she started to rise.  
"No." He gently pushed her back down.  
"Sherlock, get her off the table and somewhere comfortable. She will heal better there. It's past nine in any case." Irene shot a glare at Sherlock. "Lovely to see you alive, Irene," continued John.  
"Likewise, Doctor."  
"He came home halfway through the stitches. There was no avoiding it."  
"And you'll easily tell which are mine," John called from the other room.  
"I've simply had less practice." Sherlock lifted Irene from the table, to which she protested. "If you tear the stitches out you can fix them yourself." She quieted.  
Sherlock placed her back in his bed, tucking her in but mindful of her shoulder.  
"Mm, am I the first girl to spend multiple nights in Sherlock's bed?" She giggled softly.  
"You're recovering then." He started towards the door.  
"Don't leave me?"  
Sherlock hesitated, velocity still taking him towards the door. _Caring is not an advantage._  
But he slipped in next to Irene, supporting her to take as much pressure off the bad shoulder as possible.  
He was falling asleep when she murmured.  
"I cried, you know."  
Sherlock gave a small "hmm?"  
"When the papers said you were dead. I cried."

* * *

John and Sherlock came back to 221B the next morning to find the apartment somewhat clean.  
"What did you do?" they both asked of Irene, who had been calmly searching the Internet when they walked in.  
"A little organizing. I was bored and you told me not to go out or I would be 'sewing up my own gaping wounds.'"  
"I like it. Thank you, Irene. Sherlock, she even caulked up the holes you shot into the wall."  
"And re-painted George. I thought I would get some wallpaper from Mrs. Hudson to further cover up the holes."  
"George?"  
Irene laughed a little. "I named the smiley-face George."  
Sherlock just stared blankly at Irene while John contentedly sat down in his chair.  
"Mrs. Hudson did stop by to ask if you boys needed anything since she was running out. I mentioned milk but the store was apparently out of stock."  
"No, Mrs. Hudson didn't make it to the store. She was never going there anyway, just across the street to flirt with the shop owner."  
Irene raised an eyebrow. "I could flirt with you, make you less jealous."  
"I'm fine. I'll just go to my room."  
"What did I do?" asked Irene after Sherlock disappeared.  
John looked up from his book. "Oh, likely it's that you moved his stuff. He claims he has organized chaos but it's just chaos. So on his behalf, I thank you. He'll come around eventually. In fact," John set his book down and stood up. "I'll help you clean some more."  
That moment, Sherlock burst from his room. "It's the bartender!" he cried and ran down the stairs.  
The door slammed behind him and John glanced at Irene, who smiled just like he did.  
And they fell into laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

John, Sherlock, and Irene stood staring at the dead body.  
"Well, that was unexpected."  
"Thank you, John, for your illuminating opinion."  
"The knife at least goes with her color scheme."  
The woman laid face-down, a knife with a vibrant yellow handle stabbed into her back. The bartender, in jail, could not have done this.  
_I was wrong. How?_  
He kneeled beside the woman to get a better look. Hair styled, dyed. "She's upper class." Perfectly cleaned jewelry, latest styles. "Likely-"  
"Tina Wheaton. Highly skilled stocks trader. Known for rarely losing." Sherlock looked back at Irene, who shrugged. "I know what she liked."  
Watson stifled a chortle.

* * *

The novice detective turned to Dimmock.  
"Do you we should call Sherlock?"  
The victim was still and cold, a vibrant green knife lying next to his slit throat.

* * *

"Ian Hieght, common business man, frequented gentleman's clubs. Tina Wheaton, stocks trader, never loses. Joe Floret, paparazzi, cynical blogger." John looked up from his laptop. "Serial killer attacking the upper middle class?"  
"No, there's something else. Something we're missing." Sherlock closed his eyes and reached for his nicotine patches.  
Irene snatched them away with her good arm. "A friend?"  
He left his hand out in expectation. "No, no. Their contacts have no overlap. An acquaintance would be unlikely as well. Wheaton would avoid the events that Floret and Hieght would attend. The two men wouldn't likely have contact. The blog indicates Floret either stalked celebrities or complained about them. He rarely partied."  
Irene began to play with the box. "Then perhaps the victims are random."  
"There is a connection. There has got to be. Hand me the patches."  
"No."  
John and Sherlock both looked at Irene, one in amused shock the other in barely disguised anger.  
"Give them to me."  
"Later. Keep talking about the case."  
"I'll think better with the patches."  
Irene laughed derisively. "No you won't. Why are the victims connected?"  
"Give me the patches!" He shouted.  
"Why are they connected?" She yelled right back.  
"Because they're are! There's always a pattern, always, always, always! No human choice is ever totally random. Never. People don't work like that, you see. There's always appearance, names, details that put one person above another, that link groups together." He paused mid-rant. "Or the lack of such similarities."  
Irene smiled smugly.  
"Don't just sit there and smile. Look up their details."  
"Already did," cut in John. "None of them share a height, weight, or income bracket. No two hair and eye color schemes are the same. Different jobs, of course, and each are of different ages."  
Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Perfect. I'll text Lestrade. Goodnight, John." He brushed past Irene, snatching his nicotine from her hands and slamming his bedroom door behind him.  
"What game are you playing?"  
"Just trying to figure out what he likes."  
John laughed. "Well I give you points for trying."  
Irene visibly relaxed. "I'll take them."  
"Thought you would."  
"So far, I've only found one thing."  
"That is?"  
"You." And she slipped in after Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

"What are you doing?"  
"Coming to bed."  
Sherlock was sprawled across the bed, not letting her in. "You took my nicotine."  
"Yes. And it made you think. You should thank me."  
"Thank you?"  
"Keep your voice down. John is probably trying to sleep."  
Sherlock scoffed. "No he's not. He's listening in trying to hear what happens next."  
"What will happen? Hot, passionate love?"  
"What?"  
"I'll take that as a no then."  
"You will not be sleeping here." And with that, Sherlock flipped over, still blocking Irene from the mattress.  
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, stop acting like a spoiled child." She knocked the box on the bedside table over. "Drugs are bad for you."  
"And you aren't," he muttered sarcastic and muffled through the pillow.  
"Point taken. Are you going to let me sleep?"  
"Not here."  
Irene didn't respond as she reached for the door. "For the record, Sherlock, I am sorry."

* * *

John poked Sherlock. "Why did you kick her out? Does she bite?"  
Sherlock just gave him a strange look and went back to staring at the woman on their couch.  
"You could have given her a blanket."  
"She confuses me, John. One minute she's rational. The next-" He sighed.  
"You really don't know women, Sherlock." John chuckled and lightly tapped Irene on the shoulder.  
She opened one eye. "What?"  
"Time to get going. Sherlock and I will head downstairs so you can get ready in peace."  
"Thank you, Doctor."  
John nudged Sherlock as they walked down stairs. "Hear that? She called me 'doctor.' It's good to be recognized."  
"Yes. Every time she looks at her shoulder-"  
"Oh! I should change those bandages. Thanks for that reminder, Sherlock." He rushed up the stairs. "Irene- Oh God! Sorry!" He slammed the door. "Um," he began through the door. "I need to change your bandages."  
She laughed a little as she slid into her clothes. "Come in."  
John, cheeks still flushed, opened the door. He headed straight for the cabinet and grabbed a bottle of water. "Sit down. I'll need to soften the bandages to ease their removal. I'll be wrapping you up looser this time." He began to pour the water on her shoulder.

* * *

She hissed as he peeled the last layer off her skin. "I thought you said this would be better."  
"It is. You would bleed more had I not softened the skin. It would be even more painless if you would go to the hospital."  
She paused, hissed again, and concluded, "This is better."  
They both were ignoring the dark shadow just out of focus behind them, watching their every move. If he didn't speak and they didn't acknowledge him, they could pretend that he wasn't there.  
If they didn't acknowledge him and he didn't speak, he could pretend how close John was to Irene didn't bother him.  
Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to enter.  
"Sherlock, that inspector is back."  
Irene's eyes widened in alarm as Sherlock whirled to block the door and hurry down the stairs. John grabbed as much medical equipment as he could and followed Irene into Sherlock's room.  
"Can you believe-" John began but Irene hushed him.  
"I'm trying to listen. Just bandage me."

* * *

"Inspector."  
"Mr. Holmes. I was wondering if you, Watson, and Edith are able to come along. We have another murder."  
"Edith's arm is being re-bandaged by John at the moment-"  
"I wondered what happened to her."  
Sherlock didn't blink. "Fell out of a tree. Luckily, John says it's not broken."  
"She went to John, not a hospital?"  
"She said something about keeping costs down. I'll see you at the crime scene." Sherlock started back up stairs.  
"I didn't even tell you where it is," replied Lestrade.  
"Didn't have to."

* * *

As Sherlock moved up the stairs, John leaned towards Irene.  
"If you hurt him-"  
"I understand."


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade ushered the group into the apartment. "Prepare yourselves. This one isn't pretty. Victim is chef Ryan Bedford. He was simultaneously suffocated and disemboweled it looks like. We left everything as it was."  
"No forced entry. He knew his attacker."  
"That was our first clue. The place is also set for tea," continued Lestrade. "And the knife is orange."  
Irene and John both stiffened at the sight of the deceased chef but Sherlock paid him no heed and went straight to the empty chair.  
"Don't touch anything without gloves, Sherlock. We haven't dusted for fingerprints yet."  
Irene carefully picked her way over to another side of the room and began observing, and Donovan filled the hole beside John.  
"So who is she?"  
"Our new friend and roommate, Edith."  
She tsked. "No, who is she, to Sherlock?"  
John paused. "I have no idea. They share the same room, and she has some power over him, but I haven't ever seen a stranger relationship."  
"Do they-"  
"No. They don't do- Sometimes they talk."  
"Well, looks like the freak found himself a freak."  
Sherlock cut through outside conversations. "He wasn't suffocated."  
"What?"  
Sherlock straightened. "Two cups of tea, only one empty, the victim's. His cup also points to several fills, look at the different marks on the inside. Slight traces of powder around the kettle suggest a poison, the trace of tea on the rim of the attacker's reveal it wasn't very potent. The killer sipped while his victim drank until he was incapacitated. He would have to. The décor shows his training in self-defense."  
"But any clues as to whom the man is?"  
"He's educated. Chemistry degree? Yes, he would have to know the safe amount of tea he could consume and how much would fell his victim. He's single, which fingerprinting on his cup will prove with his fingers not adjusted slightly for a ring. There's a motive somewhere."  
Lestrade nodded. "We'll narrow the field then. Anything helps."  
As the trio turned to leave, John snickered. "His goose is cooked."  
"Inappropriate, John!" called Lestrade as the door swung shut.

* * *

"Sherlock, I checked his stats with the others. He's a chef, which makes him different, but he matches Floret's height and Wheaton's income bracket."  
The detective growled.  
Irene, on the couch John modified so she could sleep better, merely shrugged.  
"Shut up," Sherlock snapped at her.  
"I didn't say anything."  
"But you were thinking. Now shush."  
Sherlock was pacing again, the strain of failure weighing on him. "Did you search for the stats I gave you on the killer?"  
"I did. There are plenty of unmarried chemistry majors. Almost too many to sift through."  
The detective cursed and reached for the laptop; John handed it over without a fuss. This little tantrum would pass, as would all the others. He just wondered what strain it would put on the fragile status of Irene.  
Her move to the couch seemed permanent.  
After a few more hours of petty cases all strained through this serial killer, John announced he was turning in.  
Irene followed suit and snuggled into the couch.  
It was slightly uncomfortable due to the fact that Sherlock was still awake and still in the room, staring at his notes.  
"Go to sleep, Sherlock. You'll think better after rest."  
"I can solve this now."  
"No, you can't. You will drive yourself into the ground and then what will London do?" He shrugged. "Go to bed now or I will make you."  
He cast an angry glare in her direction as he rose. "Fine. I will go to bed."  
She didn't watch him as he rose and padded into his room grudgingly. She did, however, meet his eyes when he stuck his head back out the door.  
"Stop looking like a wounded animal."  
She smirked. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."


	10. Chapter 10

"He made a mistake."  
"I thought that would be your reaction."  
The light blue knife pinned a bag crisps and a magazine to the coffee table. The victim had instead been killed by a quick bullet to the head.  
"With a bullet we now can trace his gun. We've got him; it's only a matter of time. But if you can speed the process, Sherlock, please do."  
John took notes as Sherlock talked and Lestrade added asides about the victim.  
The man, unemployed, fit one or two of the previous characteristics. There was a link somewhere. Sherlock was, in the meantime, dissecting the staging of the knife.  
"-and the remote nearby."  
"So he's protesting the man's leisure?"  
"That would be my guess," said Lestrade.  
"Anderson, your opinion? Nevermind it's stupid. The killer is trying to tell us something. There is a message. He went back to a blue knife. It's not a cycle, though; otherwise the victim would match the first man's characteristics."  
John coughed. "But it's not the same blue."  
"Yes, yes, I know."  
"If you're done, Sherlock, we have a killer to catch."  
"I'll get my coat."  
Lestrade shook his head. "No. You go figure out the connection. Off you go."  
Sherlock growled but complied, dragging John with him. "Edith had better have gotten milk."

* * *

"I didn't get the milk."  
Sherlock and John stared at Irene. "Why not?" asked John finally.  
"I left the apartment to get some, but then I ran into Mrs. Hudson and we got talking. Then her friend came over with the new kitten and one thing ran into another and then you came home."  
"Well, I'll go get some milk then," John began cautiously. "Does anyone need anything else?"  
"Yes. I need a cherry for an experiment. Buy a bag of fresh ones."  
Irene chuckled.  
"What?"  
"Oh," she purred, looking at Sherlock. "It's nothing. I just haven't had a cherry in a long time. But they're so much fun to pop! in your mouth. Can I have yours, Sherlock?"  
John sighed.  
Sherlock turned on his heels and walked out of the apartment without a word.

* * *

Sherlock found the bit of solace he wanted on the streets, far from confusing women and John. What was it like in their silly brains that they'd-  
An arm wrapped around his neck, pressing a cloth to his mouth.  
_Sedative. Chloroform. Fight back._  
But it was too late and-


	11. Chapter 11

"What did I say about hurting him?" asked John.  
"I couldn't help myself. They were begging to be said."  
"Beaten by a few thoughts. Huh. I thought you'd be stopped by bullet, not by a pigheaded comment."  
John left to see Mary, leaving Irene alone. She sighed and called Sherlock, planning on apologizing.  
He didn't pick up.  
She took John's phone from the table where he left it.  
He didn't pick up.  
She ran out the door, but he was nowhere in sight. She called again, and texted.  
No answer.

* * *

"John! John come quick!"  
"Ir- Edith, what's the matter?"  
"It's Sherlock. He's missing."

* * *

"I have been unconscious," drawled Sherlock, coming to, "far too many times."  
"With the bombshell you're keeping, I imagine so."  
_Tied up. Meager lighting of what appears to be an abandoned factory. Voice behind me. Intent is to hide face. Table with mostly empty knife block. Ah._  
"You're my killer."  
"Correct."  
"Sherlock!"  
The man chuckled. "The ever loyal Watson is coming to your rescue, Holmes the Younger. What do you think of that?"  
"You are a dreadfully unlucky man when he catches you."  
"That may be true." There was a pause, then, "Well? Aren't you going to ask?"  
"Ask what?"  
A barking laugh preluded his talk. "Why I killed those five people. You're Sherlock Holmes. I know you want to understand me. I imagine you know how I killed them?"  
"Yes I know how."  
"No, no, that's not how we play this game. Now you have to ask why."  
"Why?"  
"Well," he placed a cold hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Because they deserved it. Did you figure the colours out yet?"  
_Blue for the man frequenting the strip clubs. Yellow in the stock trader. Green across the blogger. Orange for the chef. The other knife just in the unemployed's apartment. Blue in the lustful. Yellow for the greedy. Green for the envious. Orange for gluttony. Lighter blue for the lazy._  
Comprehension dawned on Sherlock's face. "I see. Each color responds to one of the Seven Deadly Sins."  
"Bravo!"  
"It was rather clever staging the bartender as the killer at first."  
"Mere luck that he tried to blow up his own club the night my mark was there. I take my opportunities."  
"Sherlock!"  
John was getting nearer. And another pair of footsteps was with him. Lestrade?  
"You won't escape. You're done at five."  
"Six," replied the man as he pulled the red knife from the block. "I myself have given in to anger, to wrath." He set the knife down and pulled out the purple one. "Or perhaps I am more a deserving of this knife? Believing myself worthy to judge others. Thinking my intellect the greatest, unbeatable, infallible. Ignoring the counsel of my friends."  
The man drew closer to his bound captive as John and another stumbled around the corner.  
"The 7th sin is pride!" he hissed into Sherlock's ear and stabbed at him.


	12. Chapter 12

_White-hot nothingness.  
Where am I? Who am I?  
SHERLOCK! I'm Sherlock Holmes! And I am in-_  
He cried out in time with the gunshot as the man dropped, beginning to strain anew against his bonds, the purple hilt in his side mocking him.  
"Shush, shush, Sherlock, stop, stop moving-"  
"Have to be free-"  
A clatter from the side startled him.  
"No, no, look at me-" It was Irene who spoke to him, who pulled his face to hers. "Look at me. You have to stay still. Stay still. You hear me? Lestrade has an ambulance waiting. People are coming. You just stay still and stay with me. Stay with John."  
She was crying.  
_Who is she? Who am I? Sherlock Holmes!_  
"They're coming," said John, kneeling beside the chair. "You stay still. You'll be fine."  
_Both of them. Why do they cry?_  
The paramedics arrived. John nodded to them and the leader stuck Sherlock with a small syringe. As they cut his bonds and the world started to fade, Sherlock looked towards John and Irene.  
"Why do you cry?"  
"Because we love you, Sherlock," replied John.  
And those were the last words he heard before the drug took him out.

* * *

"One at a time," the nurse ordered. "And don't try to wake him up."  
The small group unanimously agreed that John should go first.  
"Sherlock?"

* * *

"Your turn, Edith dear."  
Mrs. Hudson laid a comforting hand on the redhead's shoulder, who looked up quickly.  
"Oh, thank you." She rose gracefully and slipped into his room.  
"Sherlock, what are we ever going to do with you?" she whispered. "What am I going to do with you?" She sighed. "Nothing. Or dinner. But you never – I thought that, after Reichenbach, you and I could – I never had a relationship like this, one built on who we are not how… good… we are. But you don't see it that way and I can't take it anymore. I can't stand here lov- watching Joh- and you will never-"  
She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss onto his lips. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

Sherlock woke suddenly the second day after surgery.  
"John!" John leapt to his feet. "Thanks for saving me. Now get my phone!"  
"What?"  
"My phone, now!"  
John snatched the mobile. "What now?"  
"Text Irene. Text her, 'Will you have dinner with me?'"  
He did as Sherlock asked. With a few clicks, the message was sent into cyberspace. "What now?"  
"Stop talking." And Sherlock fell back into slumber.

* * *

Miles out at sea, a beautiful blonde checked her phone and cried.


	13. Chapter 13

John nervously watched the silent and shirtless Sherlock, who was allowing the bandages to clearly show. "The man stabbed himself after you, after my shot, with the red knife. Quite insane."  
No reaction.  
"Sherlock, I'm sorry she-"  
"Sorry, John, were you speaking?" He looked up from his seat.  
The doctor sighed, starting to pace. "Really? You're going to pretend to ignore me to avoid talking about Irene. That's a brilliant strategy."  
"Thank you."  
"That wasn't a bloody compliment!"  
"Then what was it?"  
"Criticism! Something you need to hear."  
Sherlock scoffed. "Criticism is for those who are wrong. I am not wrong. Did I make a mistake? No."  
"You're doing it again."  
"What?"  
John shook his head. "Being a pompous jerk. Why do you think Irene's gone?"  
"Bed was too small, or enemies closing in-"  
"She couldn't stick around and watch you trample over all our feelings like you don't care, like you don't notice. I know you do. At St. Bart's-"  
"Caring is not an advantage."  
"But it takes so much strength. Do you even comprehend how difficult you make it to be your friend?" John angrily spun on his heel. "Do you want her back?"  
Sherlock hesitated. "Does it matter?"  
"I'm your friend; she's your friend; yes your opinion matters on whether or not we should stay or go? Do you even want me? That monster didn't stab you for no reason. He watched you, watched how you treated everyone around you. Have you learned nothing from this?"  
Sherlock blinked slowly. "Was I supposed to?"  
"Yes! That's what people do as we wander about on this Earth. We learn."  
"For what purpose?"  
"I-" John's anger collapsed. "I don't know. So the next day is better, I suppose."  
"And what happens when we run out of days?"  
Silence fell between the two men.  
"So," Sherlock began slowly. "Want to go to a bar?"  
John punched him.


End file.
